


Hotel Rain

by uberneko_zero



Category: Original Work
Genre: Disturbing Themes, M/M, Oneshot, Original Character(s), dubcon, noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 00:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11116188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uberneko_zero/pseuds/uberneko_zero
Summary: Another week, another business trip, but why is it always with HIM? The guy seriously gives me the creeps. Of course it would be raining... keeping me stuck in here...





	Hotel Rain

**Hotel Rain**

**by uberneko_zero**

warnings: non-con, m/m, intensity, mindfuck

* * *

 

I loiter at the window of the hotel room, the rain keeping me in when I’d rather be just about anywhere else. It is black outside, night. The water streams mercilessly down the glass, feeling like a cage to keep me inside.

“Not going to do your usual, then?” he asks me and I hate that low voice. Something about him sets everything in me on edge. And yet, here we are, sent out on another business trip. He sounds nearly smug or mocking under the veneer of apathy.

I don’t bother to answer. I just ignore him like I can blot out his presence.

If I’m honest with myself, I feel threatened.

Maybe if I was a woman, that would make more sense to me, but I’m not and so it merely sets me more on edge.

I hate that the company has us share a room.

I hate that he keeps being the one who I am sent out with. There are others, and yet… here we are once more. It is starting to look like some sort of cruel joke.

Unable to do my usual to pass the time, I am listless. I’d rather be out seeing the city, frequenting clubs, drinking, content to while away the hours until I stagger back for a brief sleep before waking, _knowing_ I’ll be hurting in the morning but being okay with the consequences once a strong coffee is in my hand and undoing some of my work to destroy myself the night before. I function rather well on minimal sleep when the need arises. And this system has worked for me. Until now.

I don’t want to be here. 

We don’t speak of work to break the silence, as you might expect from two individuals sent out on matters of business.

For the most part, we don’t speak at all.

Restless, restless, restless.

I barely hold back from pacing. It’s like being on the edge of my seat, like something is bound to happen - like a horror movie when you know someone is about to get killed

I do not know my coworker well. I can’t say that I know him at all. This does nothing to help me keep my mind at bay and dark thoughts enter in. I tell myself that nothing can happen, that there would be no way to avoid the trail of accountability were I to be murdered, not on a business trip like this.

And yet my fears multiply, tumultuous in the back of my mind, just beyond the curtain of reason.

Hours go by.

Admittedly, I’m tired now. Without distractions, my brain is shutting down and sleep seems a welcome escape.

Except for one thing.

There is one glaring thing I take issue with that I have not been able to rectify even with the labyrinthine effort of logic that has twisted around this issue since its discovery.

Why is there only one bed?

“Tired?” he asks me.

My skin crawls. Shivers.

The threatened feeling amplifies and I view myself with disgust. “No,” I answer at last, ending the game of silence. I feel him watching me, like I am being dissected - and all under that deadpan gaze. I hate it. I hate the way I feel stripped and studied and almost dismissed in the same breath. It is demeaning and incensing.

I’d much rather be asleep.

He’d taken up residence in one of the lounge chairs at the small table in the room and has been there for some time.

It bugs me. It BUGS me. If not for that, I could do the same and perhaps drowse. But since he is there all I can contemplate is the bed and the thought of sleep feels more elusive than ever, if I was to close my eyes to this room with him in it. And this fucking _threatened_ feeling!

Anger at myself makes me cave.

I go to my small suitcase, unbuttoning my dress shirt with my back to him. Rummaging around in it I find a shirt to sleep in. I put that on and kick my way out of my dress slacks. My boxers aren’t the form fitting kind today and so I can make due; my sweatpants are notoriously absent. I curse to myself as I recall dropping them on the stairway landing at my place while doing last minute laundry and packing for the trip. Irritation at myself jags through me, and at how I can leave things to the last minute.

“Goodnight,” I say with finality, bypassing the fact that I said not moments ago that I wasn’t tired. I trudge over to the bed. I will take the furthest side, turn my back to the room and hope that I knock out quickly.

“It wasn’t coincidence,” he says simply, before I can follow through, and the statement feels loaded and dangerous.

“What isn’t?” I mutter, and avoid giving him the importance or respect of eye contact.

He remains silent until I look up. My blood runs a little cold when I do so. He says nothing but everything about him is lodging a lump in my throat and shooting through me with anxiety. It was a look like cutting knives - deep, direct, and unconcerned... and it leveled at me with such gravity.

My palms feel damp and I clench my hands reflexively. I want to leave the room now more than ever. I check but the rain is still coming hard and fast. It isn’t an option. He slowly rises to his feet, and I swear I am facing some phantom, cloaked in blackness. It is just how I am reacting to this other person, like he’s a haunting that could steal my very soul.

Deliberate steps take his solid, fit form towards me. I’m no slouch in keeping myself in shape but sheer muscle mass marks me as the loser here. Nearly the same age bracket, and roughly on par in the looks department, it was his manner that got to me so badly - chilling, toxic, hidden, dangerous. It was the way his squared jaw and anglican features held that _apathy_ and those eyes that were made of secrets and machinations. It was the way he smiled and played social at work, but here, at times like these, the act fell away and I would see what lay beneath. It hardly seemed like the same person.

If I was being quite honest, he scared me.

Being alone with him held all the tension of waiting for a bear trap to snap closed upon your foot, and _knowing_ it would.

Part of me wanted to shout to break the silence, or to repeat my question at rude volumes, but my voice felt stuck. 

He stopped a dozen paces from me and said, “I know you’ve wondered about it.” His eyes indicated the room. “Always _him_ ,” he stated, “Isn’t that how the thoughts go?”

I shook my head, not so much in denial as in shock. He was eerily correct.

“Tired of it?” he asked with a perversion of the social smile. 

It freaked me out to see him twist one of the play-acted benign smiles into this knowing, mocking version of itself. His eyes were still that steady, unreadable gaze that I hated so much.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I muttered dismissively in a display of bravado, turning to resume my trek towards the bed, and sleep. The hair was standing up on the back of my neck as I made to ignore him.

He was silent until I reached the bed. “I see it on your face, every time,” his voice was nearly charming. My skin crawled. I looked up and he walked towards me once more, deliberate, slow… “I see it every time you look at the room and go out almost immediately.” He stopped in front of me and a superior smile touched his mouth. “We both know why you’ve formed your little habit.”

To avoid him. To not be alone with this person who in some ways scared the shit out of me.

Before I could stop myself I was shaking my head and almost cringing back. That sick gaze peeled back the layers of my sense of self and drove deep, violatingly so. My throat tightened. “Stop it.”

 _Stop it?_ **_Stop it??_ ** _Just what the hell kind of thing is that to say? How the hell was that going to help?_ I railed at myself.

“Stop what?” Amusement started to trickle into the darkness in his eyes.

“Stop whatever this is,” I said sharply, trying to recover from my fumble. “I’m going to bed.” I tried to focus on that goal and nothing else. Tried to not imagine murder, death, and the like. I pulled back the covers. Engaging in this line of talk any further seemed like a bad idea. Ignoring was definitely the logical and more effective move.

But he was right - I had formed the habit of staying out all hours of the night to avoid being penned in with _him_. 

“Are you sure you want to be turning your back to me?” His voice was once again that charming, dangerous tone. He mocked me.

My anger flared up and I straightened, dropping the sheets and coverlet in my hand, turning to him with my mouth open to drop some scathing line or other. It died in my throat.

He caught my chin in his hand, sparking terror, and his lips nearly brushed mine as he said, “The single bed wasn’t a coincidence either.” Each word felt filled with menace. Other than that little fact, the entire situation could be taken as a come on.

“Let GO!”

I pushed at him, breaking the hold and his low laughter jagged through me like shards of glass. My breath came quickened and unsteady and my mind was racing. 

Why was this happening?

Why was this _happening_?

This didn’t seem like something I would merely be able to refuse and be done with. I felt like an insidious snare was about to spring upon me and encase me like a bug in a spider’s web - struggling and trapped.

“Stay away from me,” I warned, in full fight-or-flight mode.

“Or what?” he asked pleasantly.

“Or- !” _Or_ **_what_ ** _??_ I asked myself as well. I felt powerless and we both seemed to know it.

“Hold out your hands.” 

“Fuck you!” I spat, finding my true voice at last. 

This didn’t seem to bother him in the least, and he calmly snagged my right arm and started wrapping something around my wrist. I fought to yank it back but as expected, I wasn’t a match for that muscle mass and iron grip. It appeared to be a phone cord he was snaking about my wrist and my tension level skyrocketed.

I struggled but he all too easily grabbed the other one by pulling me hard to the right and then grabbing my flailing left hand in his. I felt crucified, a hand in either of his, and him at my back like an unyielding cross. I could feel his breath upon my neck, followed by the brushing of lips, and my head started to spin, my heart pounding in my chest and making me sick. I think I was having a panic attack. I couldn’t breathe.

He brought my wrists together in front of me, meeting so that they could be bound together, and his arms around me were like a fucked up mockery of an embrace. There was the heat of his body at my back, the forceful grip of hands as my wrists were immobilized, and the sickly amourous touch of his mouth upon my skin.

“I hate you,” I said as he sucked at the skin, quickening my already dizzying pulse with that small sharp pain.

“For now.”

He sounded so confident and unconcerned. I _hated_ him! And nothing he was going to do was going to change that!

“But what I really want,” he continued, his lips brushing my ear, “is for you to _fear_ me.”

He turned me and pushed me backwards onto the bed. Calmly, deliberately. Fear coursed through me like a river. I couldn’t stop it. It was taking over, coated in trepidation that stuck like oil or tar. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

He gazed upon my face as he followed me down onto the mattress, like he was basking in the rays of the sun. He stroked my face with mockingly gentle fingertips. My eyes felt wide, unblinking, panicked, and the weight that pinned me down was not helping. “Yes,” he soothed, “about like that.”

My aggressor held my bound hands above my head, pressing them into the cheap headboard as his lips descended on mine and his mouth opened to violate me. My mind was racing, uselessly. I couldn’t think. Panic clouded everything in me to the point where it was starting to feel normal. Soon, I feared, my psyche would do something unexpected to mitigate the damage of this trauma. It was starting to happen already, a physical reaction. I made a choked sound of distress.  

_Why was this happening?_

The words were an endless litany, a backdrop for this horrific turn of events.

“You could see through me,” he murmured, pausing from feeding at my mouth. “And so, this was always bound to happen.”

_This? THIS?_

A new panic seized me. Was he planning more than just to rape me? Was I to be murdered as well?

He chuckled darkly at the reaction he saw in my face, somehow guessing at my thoughts. “Well, we shall see, won’t we?”

I did my best to blank my face then, to take away evidence of the turmoil he was stirring up within me. I’d be damned if I’d give him the satisfaction of having things go his way. And with my now uncertain fate….

He leaned back and smiled at me. It was full of darkness and something quite like a mocking fondness. “As I would expect of you,” he said almost to himself, seeming to regard my blanked expression, “But are you sure?” he queried silkily, “There are, as of yet, a lot of ways this can go.”

I tried to find my voice, to tell him to go to hell. My mouth opened uselessly, the words scattering.

He ran a hand down my bared stomach and hip, seeming amused that my body reacted. And oh how I hated that it did. It was just further evidence of how fucked up he’d made me with all of this. I’d lost my mind. And I was losing it over and over, and in new ways.

The thing that truly stilled my words was the razorblade he held in nimble fingers. It was a tiny, thin rectangle of metal, hardly noticeable. He flicked his hand and a line of fire lit up my skin on the smooth plane of my belly just beyond my hip. I sucked in a breath and another, feeling myself begin to hyperventilate. A trickle of blood rolled down my belly and he bent to catch it with his mouth. It was then that I realized he was no longer holding my bound wrists, and yet I could not move them. I looked up hazily and saw they had been secured to the headboard. The bondage was a much easier thing to focus on than watching him lap up my blood. The blood that was yet in my veins curdled.

I cried out as a sucking pressure pulled upon the shallow wound, pain flashing lights behind my eyes as my head swam. I grit my teeth and a moan of dismay escaped my lips.

Sick. This was so sick.

He did it again, flicking that razor just below my ribcage on my left side. I cringed. His mouth moved upon it and my body throbbed.

I absolutely froze, horrified.

His eyes slid up to meet mine and his gaze looked smug and amorous. I started shaking my head, denying the reaction, yet I couldn’t look away when his tongue traced across his lip in such a lascivious fashion, forcing a reaction from me once more.

My body was at odds with my mind, and my body wasn’t listening to me.

“Stop it,” I grated out as he hooked a hand upon my boxers and began to drag them down. “Stop!” Shame coursed through me as the evidence of my body’s rebellion was brought fully to light.

 _I hate this! I_ **_hate_ ** _this!_ my mind was screaming.

“Yes,” he breathed cruelly as he locked eyes with me and started to touch me with a rough pull of his hand. “Hate me, despise this. And know that nothing you can do can stop it, or me, or the surge of your own sickness.”

Twisted, unwanted pleasure gripped my belly and it hurt, felt foul.

Once more, I was enduring losing my mind. My sense of self was crumbling to ashes at my feet.

The wicked touch left me for a few moments, but in its place, something worse. I was already a wreck and when my hips were lifted and a slick hardness fought its way inside of me, I couldn’t properly even defend myself. It just happened, and kept happening, and pulled anguished noises from my throat that sounded tainted with pleasure.

His harsh breath in my ear kept me company, though my voice alone punctuated the silence. His apathetic nature extended to even this, keeping things guarded and veiled, even as he enjoyed violating me in such a sick fashion.

My hair lay scattered and damp across my forehead. He on the other hand looked composed. I resented that. I resented everything about this, but I _especially_ resented that.

I wanted to kill him.

I wanted to strangle the life and breath from him with my own two hands, or stab something sharp and devastating into him and let him bleed out.

Most of all, I realized, I wanted a goddamn reaction.

That truth hit me like the sting of a thousand needles pushing into my flesh.

I came back to myself and the sharp snapping of his hips, moving him within me at an unrelenting, dizzying pace. He was close. I imagined wringing the life from him, seeing the smugness that often rested upon those lips morph into surprise; I imagined those strange eyes bulging just before death.

He saw it in me, the violence.

He caught wind of these dark thoughts he’d pushed me to the edge of and bent to my mouth, amorously filling me with his tongue, hitched breaths, and his increased desire. He seemed turned on by it - the murder in my eyes. Images of death and release filled me and I seized with an orgasm that was as intense as it was unwanted.  I crushed him within me and he moaned, showing reaction at last as his body staggered through a few final thrusts, shaking in release.

My mind was empty and my body a shell. I drifted in nothingness, unable to even exist.

Insidious words fell upon me soon after, as he turned his head to darkly whisper into my ear, “You’re just like me.”

 

* * *

 fin


End file.
